


follow the leader

by frozensight



Series: a whole new world (literally) [10]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Hints of OT3, M/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozensight/pseuds/frozensight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a pretty typical mission, Napoleon mused as he sat at a table, their mark leaning into his side as he cracked smart jokes and made not-so-subtle innuendos—all of which was pleasantly received by her as well as several of their dinner companions. She was the daughter of an American businessman, who had made some not-so-American trade deals with the Chinese concerning weapon manufacturing and, naturally, documents pertaining to things a bit more nuclear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	follow the leader

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: “we’re both in a bar and you see I’m visibly uncomfortable with the person who’s hitting on me so you come over and kiss me to get me out of it” au
> 
> notes: this fic is pretty gen....I honestly forgot the prompt even called for them to kiss........but I had fun writing it so that's a victory

**San Francisco, California**

**1965**

It was a pretty typical mission, Napoleon mused as he sat at a table, their mark leaning into his side as he cracked smart jokes and made not-so-subtle innuendos—all of which was pleasantly received by her as well as several of their dinner companions. She was the daughter of an American businessman, who had made some not-so-American trade deals with the Chinese concerning weapon manufacturing and, naturally, documents pertaining to things a bit more nuclear. 

Speaking of nuclear, Napoleon’s eyes drifted momentarily over to the back of Illya’s head. He had positioned himself at the bar, facing away from Napoleon and the mark, claiming that he’d rather not fall ill in the middle of a mission. It hadn’t taken long of Illya grumbling into his headset for Napoleon to realize that behind the bar was a mirror which aided his Russian friend in keeping an eye on him—it was sweet, really, how dear Peril pretended not to care, though he’d protest and say it was ‘for the good of the mission’ if pressed about it. 

Napoleon’s gaze lingered, however, when he realized that Illya’s grumblings weren’t directed at him, but rather at the woman who had sidled up to him at the bar when Napoleon hadn’t been paying attention. Hiding a grin behind his hand, Napoleon watched as Illya poorly attempted to make her leave him alone. Even from across the room, he could tell that his partner wasn’t having much luck, which made it all the more amusing when he locked eyes with Gaby, who was openly smiling where she sits at the other end of the bar, facing Napoleon. A tilt of her head signaled to him that he needed to swoop in to save the fine establishment they’re currently residing in from a terrible tantrum from the Red Peril—that and their mission, Napoleon supposed. 

“Solo, please assist Illya before he explodes,” mumbled Gaby when Napoleon approached the bar by her, ordering another scotch. He admired her choice of words, flashing her a smirk as he took his fresh drink from the bartender and then made his way towards Illya and his unwanted companion. 

“I am not interested,” came Illya’s gruff voice, now clearly audible thanks to Napoleon’s closer proximity. 

“Come on, tiger,” persisted the woman, and Napoleon almost wished he had a camera with him so he could photograph the vein in Illya’s forehead for posterity. “I promise I’ll do you more good than that drink ever will.” 

“I said I am not interested. Please leave.” Leaning against the bar on the other side of the woman, Napoleon nearly blew his cover by laughing at loud at how she not only didn’t back away, but proceeded to put her hand coyly on Illya’s shoulder. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to,” she paused, hand wandering slowly down Illya’s back, and Napoleon smirked as he saw Illya’s grip on his glass tighten, “ _interest_ you?” 

She was admittedly very attractive, but unfortunately for her, Napoleon knew that Illya’s tastes ran more German than American—damn shame, really. 

“No, there is not,” replied Illya curtly. Napoleon had to give it to the woman, she was not afraid of a challenge, even one in the form of a Russian giant. Illya’s other hand was beginning to shake. 

“Surely a man like yourself would like some entertainment tonight,” demured the woman, her hand now dangerously wandering to Illya’s lower back, “It’s Saturday night after all, time for a little fun.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” interjected Napoleon finally—was that relief or even greater annoyance in Illya’s eyes?—as he stepped forward, drink in hand, and drew her attention to him. “My friend here doesn’t understand the meaning of fun; I don’t think they have a similar word in Russian, which accounts for the length and depressive nature of their literature.” 

“What do you know of fun, Cowboy?” grumbled Illya, his grip not letting up on his glass. The woman eyed the two of them with a curious expression, like she was trying to figure out how they were acquainted. 

Napoleon merely smirked at Illya, but addressed the woman as he replied, “Plenty. Far more than you, good man, and I have the fact I’m currently entertaining Miss Warbler to prove it.” 

That definitely got her attention—as Napoleon had counted on—and her gaze sharpened on him. “You know _the_ Samantha Warbler?” 

He waved at the aforementioned woman over his shoulder, pleased when Miss Warbler blew him a kiss back without missing a beat. Her father was a traitorous scumbag, but Samantha was a perfectly lovely young lady who simply enjoyed throwing and attending parties, a lifestyle Napoleon could certainly get behind. Turning back to Illya’s yet to be named suitor, Napoleon grinned, “Yes, I do.” With a sudden inspiration, he tilted his head towards Illya and added, “So does he— _he_ being my exceptionally dangerous Russian bodyguard, who you may well want to remove your hand from before he removes it for you. He’s not, uh, _fond_ of being touched, particularly by strangers.” 

It gave Napoleon pleasure to watch her snap her hand away, the playful look evaporating at the threat. What made it even more satisfying was how Illya’s shoulders relaxed at the absence of her touch and how the tension didn’t return when Napoleon replaced his hand where hers had been. The gesture earned them a raised eyebrow, a silent question about just how familiar he was with his supposed bodyguard. He nearly regretted the move and the implication behind it, but then he internally shrugged it off. They were in San Francisco after all. 

“I thought he didn’t like being touched?” she asked, her tone sharp, but cool. 

“He is not stranger,” responded Illya immediately, surprising Napoleon and the would-be suitor. Those four words made it impossible to back away from the gambit they were now running, whether Illya realized what Napoleon was planning or not, but he was still grateful that his partner wasn’t _always_ awful at improvisation. 

“As Boris says,” Napoleon stepped closer, his own hand pressing onto Illya’s back now, “We are not strangers.” 

The woman glanced a couple more times between Illya’s stoic face and Napoleon’s easy grin before she nodded, consenting defeat, and retreated to search a new and more willing prey. 

“You may remove your hand from me now, Cowboy,” growled Illya, and Napoleon did so, moving to sit next to his partner at the bar instead of standing next to him. He could tell that Illya wasn’t happy with the lie they sold to that woman, but that wasn’t Napoleon’s problem. _His_ problem laid with the fact that Samantha Warbler had witnessed the exchange, and was now coming over to them. Napoleon was just about to ask Illya whether he thought they should continue the play or revert back to the original plan when the bartender slipped Napoleon a note. 

“From the woman at the end of the bar,” the man explained, a grin on his own face as he refilled Napoleon’s scotch glass. He murmured his thanks as he opened the napkin, smirking when he sees Gaby’s handwriting telling them to _keep playing along_. He passed the message to Illya, whose expression darkened for a moment before he managed to school it back to cool indifference, which, of course, was when Miss Warbler appeared at the bar. 

“Mr. Davenport, you’re going to deepen my abandonment issues if you keep this up.” Samantha wrapped herself around Napoleon’s right arm, leaning into him as she faced Illya. “Who’s this man that you left me for?” 

“My apologies, Samantha, this is Boris Chekhov, my bodyguard, a Russian import.” 

Her eyes grazed over Illya before meeting Napoleon’s, and he was pleased to see nothing but vague amusement in her expression. “Is that safe, James? Hiring a Russian these days? I’d think all they’re good for is spouting nonsense about communism and utopias and stuff like that.” 

He laughed, ‘accidentally’ kicking Illya with his foot to keep him from saying anything. “It’s perfectly safe when you can insure he’s loyal.” Napoleon winked at her as he rubbed two fingers together, indicating that he was able to pay well for services rendered from his bodyguard. Illya discreetly rolled his eyes. Grinning as he leaned towards Samantha conspiratorially, he added, “Besides, Boris and I have a, you could say, _special_ connection? A bond, if you will.” 

“I see,” began Samantha, her eyes casually drifting from Napoleon to Illya, who was still focusing on the mirror behind the bar. “I can’t help but express my disappointment, James, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say you two make quite a handsome pair.” 

That made Illya’s hand twitch, and Napoleon smirked at the reaction as he told her, “Thank you, Sam. Boris would express his gratitude as well, but he’s never been big on talking, have you Boris?” 

Illya glared at him briefly before taking a long drink from his glass. Samantha’s laugh rang between them, and Napoleon couldn’t help but appreciate how wonderful this girl was for the second time that night. Her eyes sparkled with mirth as she said, “He seems like quite the handful, James.” 

“Oh, that he is, but he’s quite agreeable when he wants to be.” 

Samantha’s laugh was interrupted by Illya grumbling, “I am right here, you know.” 

She smiled prettily at that, and really, Napoleon thought, it was a damn shame he was playing domestic with Peril because he had been rather looking forward to getting to know her better, even for just a night. Gently she placed a hand on Illya’s arm, lingering for a moment before recalling her hand back to Napoleon. 

“Of course you are, Boris, you are quite impossible to miss.” Illya grunted, but he seemed pacified by her conciliatory tone. Suddenly, she snapped her fingers and said, “I’ve got it! The two of you absolutely _must_ come to the party at my family’s mansion this weekend! I promise that no one will bat an eye if you two get a little more _familiar_ than society would deem appropriate.” 

“I am not sure that would be wise,” mumbled Illya, his eyes meeting Napoleon’s, clearly worried about having to prolong their charade. Napoleon’s left hand tapped the napkin where Gaby’s message hides, winking at his partner. 

“Nonsense, Boris, I think a party could do us some good.” Napoleon kissed Samantha’s hand and told her, “We’d love to come. Just give us a time and we’ll be there.” 

“The party will start at seven, Friday night, but I wouldn’t mind if you two came by earlier.” 

“Six-thirty it is, then.” 

“Wonderful, the party will be so much better with the two of you there I just know it.” Samantha reaches up to press a kiss to Napoleon’s cheek, and then surprises Illya with one on his cheek as well. “Until then, boys!” 

She walked away, waving goodbye to them as she was escorted out of the bar by her friends. Napoleon watched her leave for a moment before he faced Illya, whose expression had become that of someone who’d been force-fed several lemons. 

“Careful, Kuryakin; you wouldn’t want your face to stay that way.” 

“I will not play your dutiful mail-order bride, Solo,” threatened Illya, fists clenched tight on the bar in front of him. 

Napoleon did his best not to roll his eyes. “I should say not, Peril. I’d much rather you play my devoted mail-order _bodyguard_.” He looked his partner up and down and added, “Besides, you’re make a horrible bride. White, unlike red, is not your color.” 

Illya opened his mouth to retort—with something scathing, Napoleon had no doubt—when his brow furrowed and instead he asked, “Where is Gaby?” 

Confused, he glanced behind him, and sure enough, Gaby was nowhere to be found. He gave a nonchalant shrug and said, “Probably already went back to the hotel to report to Waverly about how you nearly cost us the mission because I had to come save you from a _woman_.” 

“I did not need saving, Cowboy; I had it under control.” 

He snorted, patting Illya on the back as he stood up. “Of _course_ you did, Peril.” 

“Plus, it was _you_ who jeopardized mission by implying we are—” Illya broke off and made a gesture with his hand that meant absolutely nothing to Napoleon. He turned his frown to him and finished in a soft whisper, “ _together_.” 

This time Napoleon didn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, they’re adults, not children. Well, mostly. “Seriously, Kuryakin, I know it’s not the most legal or politically correct lifestyle here or in Mother Russia, but you’re not going to summon a demon if you speak about it at a normal volume.” 

“I am not so sure,” grumbled Illya into the last of his vodka, “you are here, are you not?” 

He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. “Touché,” he said, pulling out a couple bills to cover both of their tabs. “The point is that the mission has changed in execution, but not in plan.” 

“Having two of us at party certainly seems like change in plan,” mumbled Illya as he slid off the bar stool, almost immediately shoving his hands in his pockets—probably to hide the residual tremors, Napoleon bet. 

Napoleon waved to the bartender as they walked out onto the sidewalk, Illya a few steps behind him, and replied, “Think of it this way, Peril, I’ll give you a chance to practice lock-picking.” 

“I do not require practice. I am proficient in all areas.” 

“Remember the last time we were arrested? I believe it was by the federales in Argentina—or was it Peru?” 

“You mean the mission where you led us to dead-end during car chase with police while we had trunk of cocaine?” Napoleon tapped the side of his nose, and Illya huffed. “It was Chile, and how could I forget? It was fine example of how terrible you are at your job.” 

“It’s not my fault the map was outdated,” muttered Napoleon before quickly adding, “Anyway, I noticed that you had an new lock-pick set in your belongings when we were released, which means you upgraded your tools—which _also_ means you need mission experience using them. Warbler’s mansion will provide a fine pop quiz for you.” 

"I do not need pop quiz. My skills are proficient." 

Napoleon snorted. "Tell that to the last five alarms you've set off." 

"Was only three." 

"Tell that to Marseilles and Boston." 

"Those were _your_ fault, not mine, if I recall correctly, and I always do." 

Mouth opened to retort, Napoleon wasn't able to when Gaby's voice came from behind them, "If you boys are done bickering now, I'd like to go over the new plan for Friday." 

Illya gave Napoleon a smirk before allowing Gaby to take point and then following her the rest of the way back to the hotel room. With a roll of his eyes, Napoleon trailed them, smiling to himself at the way Illya naturally gravitated towards Gaby without actually touching her. It was hilarious how his partner pretended to not be interested in her when it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he spent more time watching her than not. 

"It's not that new," mumbled Napoleon. 

"New enough considering now you're going to be relying on Illya's acting abilities." 

"My abilities are just fine." 

Gaby smiled and patted Kuryakin's arm. "That belief in yourself, darling, will help you to not get found out." Walking forward again, she added, "Lucky for both of you, I happened to run into Warbler outside of the bar and we hit it off, so I'm also invited to the party." 

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at that. "How did you manage that?" 

She smirked briefly over her shoulder at him. "A woman never kisses and tells, Napoleon." 

The flustered expression on Kuryakin's face was worth the implication that Napoleon'd been one-upped by Gaby. "Do you mean to say that—" 

"I mean only what I say, Illya, and nothing more." She didn't turn back around, and therefore missed the surprised look Kuryakin and Napoleon shared. "Now, let's get back to the hotel before our conversation draws too many ears." 

They had no choice but to shut up and follow her the rest of the way in silence. Napoleon couldn't help but wonder if this mission was going to take any other unexpected turns. It'd certainly already escalated from regular-boring to interesting-different, and if there was one thing Napoleon loved—it was a challenge. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very likely going to write an additional bit of them at the Warbler party which will be More Shippy but I just need to check this drabble off my to-do list so I can mentally move on, but yeah it's definitely going on my "to write more of" list


End file.
